So yeah… I’ve got the house to myself, except for Dad. So, no wild parties for this girl.
As if.
The universe has a painful sense of irony. Of all the kids in my high school class, I think I’m perhaps the only one who could’ve gotten away with throwing a house-trashing party while the parents went away for a weekend and not ended up permanently grounded. All I’d have to do is wear the Risky Business underwear plus sunglasses or make a Ferris Bueller reference and Dad would love it. He’d see me as recreating some of his favorite movies. High school kid throws wild party in the parents’ absence is totally Eighties, right?
Mom, however, would not be pleased.
The irony comes in where I’m totally not the sort of person to throw parties like that. Probably why the Universe let me have the parent who wouldn’t lose their mind. Between my ’rents, I’d most likely be required to do all the clean-up myself and wouldn’t get in too much trouble as long as nothing irreplaceable broke. Can’t do it now with my new friends. If a party involving vampires gets wild, walls come down. Besides, the wild party thing doesn’t fit my schedule anymore.
After grabbing a shower, I spend a few hours doing homework and researching another damned paper I have to write… and lose track of time. I’m still wrapped in a towel when the house above me fills with tween girl squeals. My vampire powers do not include the ability to see through solid ceilings/floors, but I can assume Klepto did something unbearably cute based on the tone of the voices. Maybe curled up on the arm of the sofa with her paws in the air.
It’s been a while since Sophia made the kitten, and she hasn’t gotten any bigger yet. Either Klepto is not going to change, or she’s somehow linked to my sister, growing up at a more human pace. Doesn’t really matter to me either way. I’m sure Sophia wouldn’t object to having a perma-kitten either.
“Sarah,” says Mom from the kitchen doorway. She’s on the opposite side of the basement at the top of the stairs and speaking at a normal volume since she knows I can hear her. “We’re going out for Sierra’s birthday dinner. You are planning to join us, right?”
My mother does not have vampire hearing, so there’s no point in me replying. Even screaming, she still couldn’t understand me from this distance behind a closed door. Hmm. Birthday dinner… I throw on a nice but not overly fancy turquoise dress, grab the matching flats from my closet, and head upstairs. Sierra is not a big fan of dresses, but she’s less a fan of formal boys’ clothing. Whenever we have to go somewhere ‘nice,’ she suffers a dress. Sophia had her birthday dinner home, by request. It’s honestly kind of strange Sierra didn’t make the same request since she wouldn’t have had to put on a dress for it. Maybe she wants to give the parents a break from having to cook?
Mom’s in the kitchen when I emerge from the basement stairs. It’s uncomfortably light out, but what’s a little mild incineration for my sister’s birthday? At least it’s not so bright smoke’s peeling off me. My mother’s on the phone. From the sound of it, she’s telling Sam to come home ASAP so we can go out to eat. She sees me ‘dressed up’ and nods once in acknowledgement. Sophia, who lives in dresses, is already prepared for dinner. One by one, Sierra, Megan, Nicole, and Priya come downstairs in dresses nice enough to go to a restaurant where people get kicked out for wearing T-shirts. I’m sure they didn’t go to the VR place like that, so the girls must’ve brought a change of clothes with them.
The ’rents can’t help but smile at Sierra, but they manage not to say anything. She’s uncomfortable enough as it is. Mom and Dad let her do her own thing fashion wise, but they don’t hide how happy they are when she impersonates a girl. No, it’s nothing deeply psychological. My sister is a major slacker. She hates dressing ‘nice’ for anything, even her own birthday. Sometimes, I think the girl popped out of the womb already in a T-shirt and jeans. If we’d been kids in the Sixties, Sierra totally would’ve gone full hippie.
Only, she wouldn’t have liked the Sixties. No video games.
“All right, see you soon,” says Mom. She drops her cell phone in her purse and walks into the living room where the rest of us are waiting. “As soon as your brother is home and changed, we’ll go.”
The girls nod.
“Jonathan?” calls Mom.
Dad emerges from his office wearing cargo shorts and a tuxedo-printed T-shirt.
The girls burst into laughter.
Mom frowns.
“Not formal enough?” Dad pretends to grab the lapels of the fake tuxedo.
Mom taps her foot.
Sam rumbles down the stairs. He stops short at the bottom, still in a T-shirt and jeans, sees us, and blinks. “Who’s funeral? And is Dad supposed to be a birthday clown?”
“We’re going to a nice place.” Mom makes a shooing gesture at Dad. “Go change to something nice.”
“Umm.” Nicole points at him. “How did he get here so fast?”
Priya and Megan stare at him in awe.
Ack!
I jump in front of the girls and… crap. My powers are offline. Can’t force them not to pay attention to Sam being in the house literally two minutes after hanging up the phone. “He was already walking home when Mom called. He’s messing with us.”
“Oh.” Priya nods, then laughs at Sam.
He and Dad hurry upstairs to change.
Mom presses her hand to her forehead. “That man…”
“Would have been worth it to see the look on the restaurant guy’s face when he tried to go in wearing a fake tuxedo shirt,” mutters Sierra.
The other girls snicker. Mom sighs again.
Sam put on a button-down shirt and dress pants, but he skipped socks.
Dad cracked Miami Vice jokes the whole ride to the restaurant. When we arrive at Shogun West in Kenmore, it makes sense to me why Sierra is not complaining about wearing a dress. She’s a huge fan of anime, and by extension, all things Japanese. She’s not a weeb, but we don’t often get to go out for Hibachi, so when she had the choice of where to eat, it took her all of a half-second to come up with this. Dad’s a fan, too. Mom gets nervous around the flashing knives and open flame. Last time we had hibachi, I’d been alive. Come to think of it, the big blast of flames might be uncool. Hopefully, with me expecting it, I won’t have a vampiric panic attack.
I’m still gonna have dinner here. This food’s too good not to.
The nine of us neatly fill one hibachi table. Since we don’t have to wait for total strangers to take the last few seats this time (thanks to us bringing three extra kids) it’s not long before the chef pushes his cart over to us and introduces himself as Jimmy. There’s about as much chance of the guy’s name actually being Jimmy as Sierra re-enlisting in the Girl Scouts. Is ‘enlist’ the right word? They’re pretty militant about cookie sales, but I’m not sure they take things that far.
Predictably, ‘Jimmy’ sizes us up for the prank soy sauce bottle. I’m safe, since I’m not the youngest female at the table. Hibachi chefs tend to ‘attack’ the guest they think will have the most extreme reaction to a fake squirt of soy sauce (black yarn). Sam’s not significantly younger enough than any of the girls to stand out. My money’s on Priya or Sophia. Priya’s got a generalized air of nervousness around her all the time. Sophia, well… she’s Sophia.
After his warm up routine spinning a spatula around and preparing the grill, Jimmy makes his way around everyone at the table confirming our orders. Chicken and shrimp for me. Dad, of course, gets the filet. Sierra opts for full shrimp. The other kids all get chicken. Mom ordered steak and chicken. The smells in here are going to drive me insane—good insane.
Sure enough, when the time comes for soy sauce, Jimmy grabs the fake bottle and thrusts it at Sophia as if he’s squirting it all over her. Also, predictably, she squeals and almost jumps out of her chair. Once she realizes she’s not covered in soy sauce, she fake-laughs, though it looks like she wants to cry. The instant she notices a bunch of other people looking at her, she blushes.
A few mi
nutes later, the guy stacks up a bunch of onion pieces to form a ‘volcano.’ He squirts oil in, then a boatload of sake. I brace myself for the moment he lights it and sets off a huge blast of flames. The fire, I’m ready for. The fire being bright neon green, not so much. Fortunately, no one notices me jump back and yell ‘whoa’ because everyone at our table does it, too.
Even Jimmy stops in his tracks, staring at the jet of lime colored flames shooting out of the top of the onion volcano.
I shoot a look at Sophia. Revenge?
She holds her hands up innocently, shaking her head in a ‘wasn’t me’ gesture.
Dammit. I start looking around, wondering what sort of paranormal cheesedickery is about to come my way. Not sure how I’d explain having to fight an udon demon in front of fifty witnesses. Blasts of neon green fire kinda feel like something a Japanese monster would use as an entrance, right?
Don’t see anything obvious… the screams of terror haven’t started yet.
So, hibachi cooking takes a lot of training and is highly ritualized, but it doesn’t usually rip open a breach in the planar boundaries. Something else must be going on here. Aha! I spot Blix perched on Sam’s shoulder giving ‘Jimmy’ the finger. Whew. We’re not under attack. Blix is taking revenge for him scaring Sophia. Great, if shrimp start crawling around on the cooking surface, the chef is going to snap.
Everyone, Jimmy included, appears to decide the bright green fire didn’t really happen and proceeds to continue with dinner as normal. Blix hops down to sit in Sam’s lap and occasionally swipes bits of food from his plate. The boy doesn’t seem to mind. Neither does anyone else, primarily because the imp is invisible to them. Sam can see him, as can Sophia. Priya keeps giving Sam odd looks. The lack of screaming tells me she can’t see Blix, but does sense something odd.
Dad leans close to Sierra and whispers, “Want them to do the birthday stuff? I know you think it’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, but it’s not as bad here like the other place with the stupid saddle thing. If you and Mom want pictures, go ahead. I’ll deal.” Sierra smiles at him.
“Your choice, hon.” Dad pats her on the shoulder.
“Go for it. You’ll enjoy having the pictures when I’m grown up.”
He sighs, gets misty-eyed, and pulls her into a hug.
Once we’re done with our meals, the restaurant staff goes ‘birthday crazy.’ This involves flashing lights, loud music, and a crew putting weird glasses studded with blinking green lights on Sierra. They also sing a bizarre rock music version of happy birthday. Yes, she blushes, but doesn’t hide her face the way Sophia would totally do in the same situation.
Mom looks impressed.
Darn. My near miss with death has made my kid sister aware of the concept of her own mortality, or at least how she’s going to grow up and the parents will be alone. She’s tolerating this for the pictures so Mom and Dad will have memories. It should make me feel a little maudlin, but my only thought is: ‘dammit, I hope they survive to adulthood.’
And it’s got nothing to do with the crazy world, school shooters, or whatever else. My anxiety is entirely based on paranormal stuff. Maybe becoming a vampire has made me keenly aware of how close we all are to losing everything, and it’s not my mere existence putting my family in danger. I argue with myself all the time over staying home instead of going away. There has to be some reason vampires, as a matter of tradition, allow their mortal families to assume them dead.
Oh, right. Ancient people burned things they didn’t understand. That’ll do it.
Couple centuries ago, if I’d have gone home to my parents and told them I’d become a vampire, they’d have tried to kill me. Society has become a lot more progressive in terms of undead tolerance. We haven’t quite gotten to the ‘go out openly in public’ level yet. Not sure anyone’s even trying. Revealing actual proof of supernatural beings would totally freak people out. I mean, we still have potatoes out there who think the Earth is flat. Tell them vampires are real? They’d probably spontaneously combust.
I grin at the look on Sierra’s face. The manager’s standing behind her, swaying side to side with her while singing. Those light-up glasses are completely ridiculous, as are a dozen restaurant workers all singing in different keys to music so loud we can barely hear any of them. Other diners join in, clapping along with the incomprehensible words. At least the melody reveals it as ‘happy birthday.’ The ’rents take a bunch of pictures with their phones. A woman in a kimono snaps one of Sierra using an actual camera (as opposed to a phone)… and she gets a take-home ceramic ‘shogun.’ It’s a bizarre sort of ‘glass’ they normally serve alcoholic drinks in, but they gave her a Shirley Temple on the house.
Yeah, it’s cheesy as hell, but sometimes, the best memories are.
3
Shadow Politics
Mondays have been the bane of human existence since the advent of the day job.
First world problems, amirite? Not only does Monday bring the dreaded end of the weekend, it bears another inevitable reality… at least in Sophia’s case: dance class. Dad and I did rock-paper-scissors for choice. He took Sam and Sierra to taekwondo. Mom got stuck late at work—prepping to defend against a lawsuit—so I’m driving Sophia to the studio.
It’s not a ‘Monday’ thing for my sister. She adores the class. Her new magical pursuits may or may not interfere with how long she keeps at it. Sophia never had any plans to try ‘going pro’ as a dancer, or aspirations of becoming any sort of star working on Broadway or in music videos or whatever. She might stop going once she’s in high school and has more of a demand on her time from homework. Then again, for the same reason Sierra likes sword lessons, Sophia might keep with dance to stay flexible. She did dodge imp attacks like a pro.
I take a seat among the parents. The two cougars are in the front row, having coffee and chatting about their pool boy fantasy plus an annoying neighbor who evidently thinks eleven at night is an awesome time to do yard work with power tools while singing in off-key Spanish to whatever music is playing on his headphones. Ugh. I’ve brought my biology book to catch up on reading while the class runs. Probably won’t finish the chapter I need to review before the class is over. No big deal. I’m making the most of my time.
No way could any meaningful reading happen at the taekwondo place. Way too loud. Sure, they play music here sometimes, but it’s much easier to tune out music than a crowd of tweens and younger children screaming their heads off. Screaming occasionally happens here, too… but only when one of the kids takes a spill or the instructors announce a new recital in the works.
Before I know it, Sophia is standing politely beside me, waiting for me to notice her.
“Over already?” I ask.
“Yeah. Must be a good book.”
“Ehh. More heavy than good. It’s dense and takes a lot of concentration.”
“Oh. School stuff?”
“Yeah.” I stand, pack up, and follow her to the exit.
Sophia pauses at the door to look both ways before venturing out into the parking lot.
I raise an eyebrow. “Expecting a speeding golf cart to come wheeling at us down the sidewalk?”
“No, hipster vampires,” she deadpans.
“It’s still light out.”
“Oh, duh.” She fans herself. “Sorry, out of breath and a little loopy.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Every time we’re here, I remember those idiots.” Sophia heads around to the passenger door of the Sentra.
I sigh. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault. You didn’t do anything. Eleanor’s bad and Dalton made a mistake.” Sophia swipes her hair off her face. “I put all the blame for my mental scars on Eleanor.”
She makes it sound almost cute, but I can’t laugh. Eleanor St. Ives is still on my bad list. Doesn’t mean anything more than ‘avoid at all costs.’ I’m not the sort of vampire to hold grudges or want revenge. I’ve seen enough Eighties movies to know where a drive for
vengeance leads—lame sequels. It’s an endless cycle. Bad guy does something, good guy exacts revenge. Bad guy takes revenge for the revenge, and before you know it, Jean Claude VanDamme is getting his ass kicked, then there’s a training montage, and more ass kicking in the other direction. Of course, the win results in more revenge, but they have to squeeze it into another whole movie.
On the ride home, I try to reassure Sophia that Eleanor St. Ives has no reason to come after me. As far as I know, Dalton hasn’t stolen anything else she wants, I haven’t relocated any other mummified remains, and my nose has been far away from her business. Except for Wolent sending me around as his messenger and Aurélie taking me to those fancy soirees, my involvement in the vampire world is as minimal as possible. I’m keeping a low profile to protect my family, but also because I’m not a fan of social politics. I hated it in high school and it’s not appealing to me in vampiredom either.
“… and she’s an Academic. The woman has zero emotional investment in anything. As soon as doing anything no longer offers her measurable benefit, she stops wanting to do it.”
“Weird.” Sophia exhales. “So even though you guys stole the spyglass thing from her and didn’t give her Coralie, she doesn’t care about you anymore?”
“Ugh. No. Dalton didn’t steal the spyglass from her. He stole it from this other guy who owns a night club. She wanted it, but we didn’t give it to her.”
Sophia blinks. “She got mad at you for not giving her something stolen from someone else when it wasn’t even hers?”
“Yep. Well, not mad. She simply wanted it and harassed us while I had the thing. Since Wolent’s got it now, she has no reason or desire to bother me.”
My sister seems slightly reassured, though she can’t quite understand how someone can be like St. Ives and operate purely on logic and cost-benefit analysis. The scientist type Academics are creepy as hell, basically like AI androids. Mystical Academics go the other way… pretty much all eccentric or straight up nuts.
Vampire Innocent | Book 11 | How To Stop A Vampire War In Six Easy Steps Page 3